Disclaimer: A:TLA and LoK are not mine.

The Greatest Gift of Honor

"You're brooding again," Mai doesn't even have to look up from her book as she lies in bed, hand resting protectively over her swelled stomach, "I've told you not to brood around the baby."

"I am not brooding," Zuko protests from the heavily stuffed armchair – deep red velvet, of course – next to their imperial bed.

Mai shoots him a skeptical glance, and he forces his face into the most comically cheerful grin that's ever graced the face of a Firelord.

Mai snorts and returns to her novel, "You're not fooling anyone, dear. Now calm down; Uncle will be here any minute now."

"But he ought to have been here half an hour ago—" Zuko begins, before he remembers that he's supposed to be pretending that he's not brooding—ahem, worrying – about Uncle Iroh's imminent arrival.

The tiny smirk on his wife's lips – so subtle that only one who has known her as long and as well as he has could ever notice it – lets him know that his slip-up has been duly noted.

"It's a long way from Ba Sing Se," she idly flips a page, "And Uncle's not getting any younger. Travel takes time, Zuko."

"Quite a lot of time, my sweet niece," a familiar voice says from the doorway, "As does convincing the palace guards that a simple teashop owner actually has business here. But it seems that this old man is still spry enough to sneak his way into the Firelord's chambers."

"Uncle!" Zuko's neck turns so fast that he can hear the vertebrae snap! and he leaps out of his chair to embrace Iroh.

Mai struggles to rise to greet him as well, but Iroh waves her off, extracting himself from Zuko and coming over to kiss her, fatherly, on the forehead. He rests his wrinkled palms on the curve of his growing great-niece – the healers from the Northern Water Tribe had confirmed it – and sighs contentedly.

"Let me have a look at you!" he exclaims afterwards, whirling around to hold his nephew at arms' length, "You look well, nephew."

It's a lie, and all three of them know it. Zuko doesn't look well—he looks pale, and thin, and tired. The first hints of grey are starting to streak prematurely through his dark hair, and his burn scar is more prominent than ever amongst the new bags beneath his eyes and wrinkles across his forehead.

It's his golden eyes, though, that complete the picture. They look hollow, haunted.

"Excuse me, Uncle," Mai is using that silky-smooth tone that immediately puts her husband on the defensive. It's always reminded him, however vaguely, of hidden daggers waiting to fly, "I know you and Zuko have so much catching up to do. Do you mind terribly if Zuko entertains you in the pavilion? It's just that the healers have been telling me to try to sleep early…"

"Of course," Uncle bows his head slightly in acquiesce, "I was about to suggest that myself. You must take care yourself, Mai."

"Thank you, Uncle," she favors him with a rare sincere grin as she nestles down into her pillows.

Zuko shoots her a suspicious look – the healers gave her no such instructions. He would know; he's made it his duty to hound the fleet of royal healers he appointed to looking after the Firelady ever since she first told him the news eight months ago.

Hovering, was what the head healer had labeled his behavior, with a condescending smile that Zuko was not at all sure he approved of.

It's preposterous. He is the Firelord. He does not brood, and he certainly does not hover. That sounds like a job for an Airbender; from the letters the two had been exchanging with terrifying frequency in the past few months, Aang had been doing his fair share of hovering over Katara and their newborn son.

But now he's being an ungracious host, and that won't do.

He shoots Mai one last narrow-eyed glance, which she patently ignores, before following Uncle out the door and into the open-air courtyard.

It takes around three hours of lecturing about the wonders of putting tapioca balls into cooled tea before Iroh is able to wear Zuko down into spilling his worries.

"Uncle," the Firelord feigns nonchalance as he stares up at the waxing moon, "Hypothetically speaking, if a… a baby, let's say… has a family history of, uhm, turning out not so... well… not so great, what do you think the chances are that said baby might inherit said… err… unsavory traits? Hypothetically speaking, of course, I mean, it's for a friend. A friend of a friend. Whose wife is, uhm, I mean, who's trying to get his wife pregnant, and, er… they have a family history of… uh… I mean, his sister had a really bad chronic case of the… the Mondays… uhh…"

Uncle is gentle as he lets the younger man trail off awkwardly, "She will not be like your sister, Zuko."

The tips of Zuko's ears burn red at being read so easily, but he can't stop now that he's started. This is something he can't tell Mai – Mai, who turned her back on said insane, megalomaniac sister. Mai, who is equally worried, if less obviously so, about being a parent with her own family history of dysfunctions. Mai, who has dealt with more than her fair share of royal pains in the asses.

"But Uncle, if Azula was born crazy, that means that there's something—something – in our family line that makes us more likely to be diabolical tyrants. I mean, in the past four generations of Firelords, we're something like 5 for seven in terms of going, y'know," he whirls as finger around his temple as his eyes bulge, "So what if there's something in our blood – in my blood – that will someday possess my daughter and turn her into…" he cringes, remembering the last time he visited his sister in her cell. It's the thing that his nightmares are made of, and it seems that all he's had lately are nightmares.

"And if it's not hereditary… that means that there's something about the way we bring up our kids that drives them insane. Something that Sozin passed on to Azulon that he passed on to my father, which means that I… what if… I've tried so hard, Uncle, to not be my father, but it's so easy to slip into it. Every decision I make, I find myself questioning if he would have done the same thing, because he's all I've ever really known about Firelords, y'know? What if I do that with my daughter? What if there's some switch that flips when she's born, and I become like him because that's all I've ever known about fathers?"

And then, so quietly that Uncle has to lean forward to hear, "What if she hates me like I hated him? And what if I deserve it?"

Iroh is still for a long, long time, pretending not to see the teardrops glistening down his nephew's disfigured face.

"Zuko," he says slowly, "I have always, always, considered you to be my son. Is Ozai really all you know of fathers?"

Zuko's frenzy stills.

Uncle continues, "And there is nothing diseased or soiled about our blood, Firelord Zuko. We are more than the fate of our fathers, you know. You, of all of us, should know that."

Slowly, creakily, Iroh rises to his feet, "Your father failed you, my nephew, my son. But that was because he was a weak, short sighted man who could not look past his own ambition to see the wonder that was his eldest child. He had no heart, and no honor."

"Whatever else anyone can say, however you try to measure yourself against Ozai, know that your eyes burn brighter than your father's ever did, Zuko, and you know all there is to know of honor. You will never, never, fail to see your daughter for the treasure that she is. You will learn, Firelord, that the greatest honor a man can have is being a father.

"Now, excuse me, child, but it is late and I am not as young as I used to be, "Iroh grins, and inclines his head, "I must rest these old, old bones of mine." He doesn't wait for an answer, but shambles off, humming to himself as he sniffs the delicate flowers on his way to the guest quarters.

For the longest time, Zuko sits in the courtyard, and sips his tea.

A/N Mulan reference! :3 And yay for awkward Zuko!